


Until We Are Free

by prussium



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Human, Depression, M/M, Romance, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1827955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prussium/pseuds/prussium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Arthur once told me he’s no good with words so he lets his movements speak for him. I’d like to think the same with his face as I read through those bright, sad eyes." (USUK, dance AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until We Are Free

**Author's Note:**

> Some drabble I wrote for 365daysofusuk on Tumblr. uwu

“...Feel the music through movements. Cry with your body...”

I already regret giving dance class a try the second Arthur starts with his impossible instructions.

How am I supposed to cry with my body? My goddamn armpits are weeping, alright, but I haven’t the slightest idea how to make the rest of me shed tears. Don’t get me wrong, now, I’ve cried an awful lot before I landed in this place. I’ve probably done all sorts of crying and I still haven’t gotten over it, to be honest.

It gets even worse when everyone – these people in loose shirts and colored tights sitting Indian style on the wooden floor – looks back at him with the same comprehending faces. I know this class will suck right from the start because I don’t know how to dance at all (I’ve always been told I have two left feet and all). I bet I’ll make a big fool out of myself and quit in the middle of it all and cry and cry until blood comes out of my eyes.

I look around, waiting for someone to question Arthur. When no one does, I take their silence as a lousy dare to sit my ass down and proceed despite my cluelessness and poorly inadequate skills. To hell with dancing.

Everyone knows everyone in here. I mean it. They don’t just know your name and all that crap. They know _why_ you’re sent here too. There are no secrets in this place, I swear to God. I hate the fact that they keep asking personal questions because I’d rather not talk about myself.

I can’t stop thinking about Arthur, though.

Like I said, everyone knows why he was sent here, and it keeps running through my head whenever I watch him dance. I only heard his story from the others; I never ask him about it. In fact, I barely talk to him at all, but he’s the only reason I keep attending dance class.

There aren’t any visitors who drop by and sign him out, but I rarely see him around. They tell me he spends most of his time at the dance room, so I try sneaking in. And there he is, dancing to himself.

I hide behind the door, to a blind spot of the mirror walls. Tinkling piano keys flutter in the air while a soft voice breezes loss and yearning. Arthur glides across the floor. He spins, leaps, and reaches out with unwavering precision and gracefulness, pouring all of himself to music and movements. Embracing the air and his own sorrow.  

Watching him, I feel guilty for breaking into his solitude.

It’s amazing how passionate emotions like sadness can drive people to do beautiful things, like how storms create a sense of unity among people upon its aftermath. I’m not saying I admire sadness, though, no. If you ever hear someone speak of beautiful sadness, don’t believe them, for beautiful sadness does not exist. Art and real life are two different worlds and one shall not be confused as the other. They are separated by a barrier that people must not overstep, especially those who are not like us, who never felt the way we do.

Arthur slows to a stop as the music fades. He does it flawlessly that I find it hard not to burst into applause.

He catches me off-guard when he bends over the player and says, “I know you’re there... Come out now.”

I guess there’s no escape. I come out of my hiding place and walk towards him.

“S-Sorry, I —”

He cuts me short as he assumes position. A familiar melody rings in my ear.

We’ve been dancing together since the day he asked each of us to get a partner. I was the only one left out, so he did the honor and took me to be his. Truth be told, I didn’t expect him to have much patience with me (given my hopeless state), and he surprised me with such gentleness as he guided me throughout the piece. We also started talking more; I feel rewarded each time he flashed even just a small smile.

After countless repetitions, I’ve known this tune by heart in synch to the pattern of our routine. We hold each other, starting with his hand on my shoulder and mine on his waist. The mirror paints our fluid motions and shifting figures, showing our contours corresponding together. Arthur has molded his shape against mine, and I move accordingly to the angles and arches he traces for me. In between marching and leaping, I listen attentively to his quiet footsteps. Through the twirls and lifts, I feel his breath against my skin, happy to hold him in my arms.

We’re now face to face, our noses almost touching, arms outstretched as if poised to fly. He once told me he’s no good with words so he lets his movements speak for him. I’d like to think the same with his face as I read through those bright, sad eyes.

Sadness keeps us prisoners, and fighting to release ourselves from its dark confines is where beauty sets in. I think that’s what Arthur is trying to tell me. He cries through movement and give his all to liberate himself from sadness. I try to follow his example, leaving negativity behind with each move, refusing to be weighed down as I fly away. I’ve never felt such control my entire life. I can do it, I know I can.

And if it is not too much to ask, I will dance with him and let our bodies cry together until we are free.

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments? ;w;


End file.
